North Carolina

On December 22, 2014, Shelby Stephenson was appointed the ninth North Carolina poet laureate. Stephenson has authored several poetry collections and taught at both Campbell College and the University of North Carolina at Pembroke. He will serve as poet laureate until 2016.

upcoming events

date
Sep 10 2015 to Sep 12 2015
The 10th Annual Carolina Mountains Literary Festival

The festival begins Thursday night with a film about the creation of the US Forest Service. Friday and Saturday almost 30 authors including NC Poet Laureate Shelby Stephenson, Sara Gruen and Wiley Cash will present free readings.

The Friday night banquet with Jay Erskine Leutze and Saturday night's "Conversation With Barbara Kingsolver and Ann Patchett" are ticketed events. Four writing workshops and a nature walk require registration and tickets.  More information is at cmlitfest.org

7:00pm to 10:00pm
6 South Main Street
28714 Burnsville, North Carolina

recent & featured listings

typesort descending name state
Literary Organization Carolina African American Writers Collective North Carolina
Literary Organization North Carolina Arts Council North Carolina
Literary Organization North Carolina Haiku Society North Carolina
Literary Organization The North Carolina Poetry Society Inc. North Carolina
Literary Organization The North Carolina Writers' Network North Carolina
Literary Organization Poetry Alive! North Carolina
Literary Organization Winston-Salem Writers North Carolina
Literary Organization Anson County Writers' Club North Carolina
Poetry-Friendly Bookstore Bull’s Head Bookshop North Carolina
Poetry-Friendly Bookstore City Lights Bookstore North Carolina

poems

poem

Fuss, fight, and cutting the huckley-buck—Dear Malindy, 
Underground, must I always return to the country of the dead,

To the coons catting about in the trees, the North Carolina pines 
Chattering about sweetening bodies in their green whirring?

Do these letters predict my
poem
In the moon-fade and the sun’s puppy breath,
  in the crow’s plummeting cry,
in my broken foot and arthritic joints,
                                       memory calls me
to the earth’s opening, the graves dug, again, and again 
I, always I am left
                   to turn away
into a bat’s wing-brush of air
poem
There was no water at my grandfather's
when I was a kid and would go for it
with two zinc buckets. Down the path,
past the cow by the foundation where
the fine people's house was before
they arranged to have it burned down.
To the neighbor's cool well. Would
come back with pails too heavy,
so my mouth pulled out